


The Fall

by addicus_ace_of_gray



Series: I'm Falling [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caring Mycroft Holmes, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Faked Suicide, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:08:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29525505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicus_ace_of_gray/pseuds/addicus_ace_of_gray
Summary: "Moriarty is winning. Sherlock is losing his grip. You know this is the only way.""I know.""Are you ready, then?""Just give us one more night.""So be it."Sherlock is awaken after a drunken night to find that his friend, Dr. John Watson, has committed suicide. Sherlock refuses to believe it. John isn't dead. Sherlock is willing to do whatever it takes to find him. He isn't going to give up. Not yet.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: I'm Falling [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2169084
Comments: 14
Kudos: 17





	1. Before the Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :)  
> I have been working on this for a while and I hope y'all enjoy it. This is an au fic where John fakes his suicide, not Sherlock. Please leave comments if you want to. I love feedback! I think this idea has been done before, but I hope y'all enjoy anyways!!

I looked at the ceiling, mapping out Moriarty’s next move in my mind. I blocked everything out. I had to. Everyone was starting to doubt me. I was used to them thinking it was me who killed the people whose murders I solved, but not John. Never him. He had to know it wasn’t me. He had to. He has to.  
It was quiet when I came to. It was dark. Night had fallen while I had laid still. I looked around the apartment. It was a wreck and I understood that, but the idea of cleaning it sent panic coursing through my veins. It didn’t make sense, but I knew where everything was, and I will know where everything is in the morning.  
I smelled tea and reheated leftovers. John was home. I weighed my next actions. Does he want to see me? If he really did, wouldn’t he try to get my attention? What if he had been and simply gave up? What if he didn’t want to see me, and is just being really bad at sneaking about? What if he thinks I don’t want to see him? What if..what if?  
“Are you here?” John asked in the same stern, but gentle I’ve grown used to.  
“Yes,” I responded, monotone.  
“Did you figure it out?” he inquired, setting a bowl of soup from yesterday in front of me. His eyes searched me. He was trying to deduce me. He was never quite good at it though. I honestly think that it would ruin him if he was. I would hate for him to ever be anything like me. I would hate for him to know what I see when I look at complete strangers. I would hate for his beautiful heart to become as cold as mine. I would hate for him to be a freak too.  
“Sherlock?” he said after a long moment of silence.  
“No,” was all I could manage. This was getting past mildly embarrassing.  
Moriarty was no longer just a difficult case. He was the cause of my humiliation. I never thought I would care if there was another who could outwit me. I was sure there was. John has many times, and so has Mycroft. I am by no means, unaware that others are more intelligent than I am, but this was something else.  
John loved it when I solved the case and saved the day. He has made me a hero, not only in his stories, but in his own mind as well. The problem is that I am no hero. I am a pathetic, lonely, broken addict who can barely call myself a man. I have no illusions about this. I may work on the side of Angels, but never confuse me for one of them. I knew how I am, but I wanted to be the hero he deserved. I let him believe I was a hero; we were playing pretend. We played out this fantasy so long, I almost believed I was good. I was the hero John wanted me to be. I was the hero he saw me as. The hero he needed.  
Unfortunately, fantasies never last. Surely John knew I was not the hero he thought I was. Surely he’d listen to the whispers.  
“He’s sick.” “I knew there was something off about him.” “Psychopath.” “Murderer.” “Freak.” “Should have locked him up years ago.” “Any second. He’ll snap any second.” I replayed those whispers time and time again. I felt my throat close up.  
‘No,’ I told myself. ‘You are a sociopath, you can turn this off. You don’t have to feel this. You don’t have to feel. I don’t have to feel.’  
“Sherlock?” John cautiously called to me, trying to pull me from a rut before I could fall into it.  
“Yes?”  
“Let’s not think about Moriarty tonight,” he said, coming to sit by me.  
“Why don’t we play a game, or perhaps watch the telly?” he persuaded.  
“Why would we do that?” My heart sped up despite my brain telling it that this was only John.  
He was my John, though. He wasn’t like everyone else. He was what kept me here. He was what kept me from going too deep. He brought me to Earth. He put the fear of God in me. He brought me home, patched me up, and ran back out with me. He was my best friend. He made life worth living despite the constant boredom.

I looked John in his eyes; they had an odd look in them. What was that emotion? Was it emotion?  
“Because,” he said. He mumbled something else too, but I never got to hear it.  
“What?” I stammered a little. I took deeper breaths. He smiled just a little bit. A whisper of a smile that he reserved for girls he had been dating, but this one was more...natural? No. No. No no no no no no. Don’t think like that. Don’t do that to yourself.  
Please, don’t do that John. I’m really trying here. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t make my heart feel like it was close to exploding. Don’t make my stomach do cartwheels. Don’t make my face combust in a deep red blush that I can’t hide. Don’t make me blow my cover. Don’t- my internal panicking was interrupted.  
“I said, because tonight, it’s just us. Don’t think about Moriarty. Don’t think about Mycroft or Molly or Mrs. Hudson. Let us have some fun while we have this moment?” he suggested.  
He avoided my eyes. He was fidgeting with his hands in his lap. He was nervous, and I guessed he noticed that I had figured that out because his ears went that cute shade of pink that could make me lose all of my senses.  
‘You are a sociopath! Stop that! Turn it off!’ I screamed internally. I was having a hard time turning it off, though. He looked up to meet my eyes and gave a small, but genuine smile. It was a nervous smile. A nervous smile, but sad eyes. What could that possibly mean?  
“What did you have in mind?” I asked coldly. No emotion. I can’t do that to myself.  
“Alright, two truths and one lie, but with alcohol,” he said. He leaned back into the couch. He now met my gaze.  
“Mrs. Hudson doesn’t like drinking-” I reminded him.  
“I know, but she isn’t here,” he responded.  
I couldn’t argue with that.  
“How does the game work?” I asked him.  
“Someone tells two truths and one lie, you have to guess the lie. Guess wrong, take a drink. Guess correctly, the other person has to drink. Winner is whoever is the least drunk,” he explained.  
“Okay,” I hesitated. “Who goes first?”  
“I’ll go,” he said.  
We started the game. As it turns out, I did not know as much about my friend as I thought I did.  
I soon got very drunk. Very, very drunk.  
Everything was nice, though. I was nice and warm. I was with John, who I think might have been just as drunk as I was. How would I know, though. I was so very drunk.  
“Okay. Okay. It’s your turn,” I said, downing the shot.  
“Okay, let me think.”  
“I actually like the way you turn up your collar when you want to feel cool. I am in love. I’m tall,” he was almost giggling.  
I laughed and said, “The lie is that you’re tall.” He smiled and took a drink.  
“Your turn.”  
I was drunk. I wasn’t in control. I was looking at him. Flushed from alcohol. Laughing from genuine happiness. He was beautiful.  
I could hardly be responsible for what I said.  
“Okay,” I said. “I am experiencing extremely high levels of dopamine, oxytocin, norepinephrine, and serotonin. I like making you blush. I am not in love with you.” I smiled, proud of myself. I had managed to make him blush again.  
“Perhaps we should end the game here. You are hammered,” he said. I took a drink and tried to say something witty. Maybe I had?  
I was sleepy.  
Maybe I walked to my room? No, he helped me there.  
He said something maybe?  
He put me in my bed, I think?  
He sat at the foot and he...he  
He sobbed. Was I imagining this?  
He wailed with an anguish I have never heard before from him. Why? Why was he crying?  
What did I do wrong?  
I blacked out, but as it turned out, I would be asking why a lot more than I had ever thought.  
It was early that morning when I realized something was wrong. The memory from the night before was hazy and pieced together from what I found around the flat.  
John must have not woken up yet, so despite my splitting headache, I cleaned up the place for him and put on some water for tea.  
All I remembered from the night before was his laugh and smile. I also heard this God awful wail that must have belonged to a banshee. God, it still rang in my ears.  
I also started up what I hoped could pass for food. I’ve never been much of a cook, but I tried all the same.  
As I was making my way to the fridge to look for the eggs, a knock came to our door. It was an odd sort of knock. Solemn and quiet, as if the person on the other side didn’t want to be here. Lestrade maybe?  
I went to the door. It was indeed Inspector Lestrade. He stood with his hands folded in front of him. Mrs. Hudson was with him. That was odd.  
I looked them both over. They had been crying. Not a good sign.  
“Sherlock. We need to deliver the worst sort of news, but we need you to sit down first,” Lestrade said.  
I looked at him with a puzzled expression.  
“Why? If it’s that horrible, let me go and wake John. He will need to hear this too,” I said, dashing to go get John.  
“No. Sherlock-” Mrs. Hudson called after me, but I didn’t get why. John would need to know of this too. He is family. If it concerned me, it concerned him too.  
I knocked on his door before dashing through the door. “John wa-” I stopped. He wasn’t there. His bed was made neatly. Everything was in order, but he was gone. Where could he have gone?  
“Sherlock. Please sit down!” Lestrade begged as he struggled to hold in his tears. “Please.”  
I turned to face him. I was confused. “Have you any idea where John might be?” I inquired. “I can’t be told devastating news if he’s not here. There is no use in-”  
“Sherlock John is dead!” he yelled, but I ignored him.  
“There is no use in repeating it twice. If John isn’t here, and you go ahead and tell me, then I will have to tell him and if it is truly terrible news, I don’t want to have to tell him.”  
“Sherlock did you not hear me?”  
“Hush now,” I said as I felt something warm and wet roll down my cheeks. “I have to find John.”  
I went weak in my knees. “Sit down Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson cooed and tears ran in black streams down her face. “He’s in a better place.”  
“Better place?” I demanded. I was losing my grip. I could feel my world crumbling.  
“Sherlock, I’m genuinely very sorry for your loss.” Mycroft came in. He was not mocking me. He had real tears in his eyes.  
“No.” I begged. My whole body shook.  
“Sherlock. John’s gone,” he said, stepping between Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. He pulled me into a tight embrace.  
I let him. “Tell me it’s a joke. Please please Mycroft. Please. Tell me this is a joke. He’s okay. He’s not gone. Tell me. Tell me please.”  
“He’s gone.”  
“How?” I demanded. “If he’s dead then tell me how!” I demanded.  
“No. Sherlock,” Lestrade pleaded. “Give yourself a little time to process before-”  
“He committed suicide.” Mycroft’s cold, monotone voice broke me with his words.  
The world seemed to break with me. My mind palace was crumbling. A sound so horrible filled the air. I couldn’t understand where it was coming from. It was similar to the one I heard from the night before.  
“I’m sorry Sherlock. You’ll understand one day,” was the last thing I remembered John saying. That wail of anguish was his last night. This morning, it was mine.  
I curled into myself and I sobbed. I never knew that I could.  
I sobbed and sobbed. I was more than broken. I was more than grieving. I was dying. And at that moment, it didn’t seem all that bad of an idea.


	2. He Has Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has Sherlock convinced he's dead. Now Sherlock is ignoring me. He won't ignore me for long. Time for a new game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Here is part 2! I really hope y'all enjoy it! :D

Apparently I worried some people. Lestrade often made visits. He forced me to start a television program. It wasn’t enjoyable. It was mostly sad, but it made so little sense that I had to watch it to see if it would ever. It didn’t. It was 15 seasons of disappointment. Surprisingly, it made me more depressed. I don’t think that was what he intended for me to watch it everyday straight for two months. What else did I have to focus on? At least in the show, when someone dies, they usually come back. 

Molly tried to get me to go to the lab, but I didn’t want to. Too many memories with John lived there. Her argument was that he lived here, so there should be more memories here, then there. “Yes, but I often blocked him out here,” I would respond. After a month, she stopped trying too. 

Mycroft's calls were ignored. Food would go untouched. There was no point. It wasn’t that I was sad. After that first time crying, I was done. I was too empty to cry anymore. Or, more accurately, I was done openly crying. Sometimes it was too much. Songs of sorrow would fill the dark and empty flat. It was a solos of sobbing and wailing. It was I tried to make the feeling go away,There was this unfillable hole inside me. Nothing filled it, so there was no reason to try anymore. I wasn’t bored. I didn’t have the capacity for boredom. Sherlock Holmes may as well have been dead. I felt nothing, and feeling nothing felt great. 

I had finally turned it off.

I looked at the needle that sat on the table and the list in my hand. The newspaper that claimed that Moriarty had killed himself laid on the table. Maybe he had grown bored with the game I had given up on playing?

The cocktail of drugs moved through my veins. It was hot and cold at the same time. It had a numbing effect. I faintly heard Mrs. Hudson fussing over me. I smelled her perfume, which smelled distinctly of baby powder. Mrs. Hudson had already called Mycroft, I was sure. I was probably going to survive, no need for the fuss or rushing. I would be fine, maybe. But if not, who cares? Why did it matter anymore? Was this what a living man looks like? Because my organs haven’t stopped working yet? I was surviving, not living. 

I know John would be upset, but this was his fault. He’s the one who left without a reason. He left no note, no reason why. No one to blame. No one to get revenge on. No one left to hate.

I laid back against the chair, John’s chair. I closed my eyes and let myself feel nothing. My chest was tight, and my body trembled. I let myself go, and let the drugs take the wheel.

The world was quiet except the sound of sobs from somewhere too close. 

It wasn’t my heart that sounded like a drum in my ear. It wasn’t my eyes that made my cheeks wet from tears. No. This wasn’t me. It’s just the drugs. Just the drugs. This isn’t me. It isn’t my fault. It isn’t my fault. No. 

He made his choice. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me!

My body grew heavy. My head grew light. It was ecstasy. 

I opened my eyes and found myself in my mind palace. It wasn’t normal though, it was dark and nothing could be heard but the ticking of a clock.

The floors were a dark wood, and I couldn’t see five feet in front of me. I walked up staircases that led to nowhere. Not a picture hung from the wall, nor was there any furniture. It was empty of anything except for the cold, creeping darkness.

I wandered thoughtlessly. There was no objective in mind as I walked the halls. They were coated in a thick layer of dust. My feet left prints as I walked.

I entered one room that looked an awful lot like home. I heard him before I saw him. John. My John. Why would he be here? 

“What are you doing Sherlock?’ he asked, his back to me. He didn’t turn to meet me either. He stood there like a statue.

“I don’t understand,” I half whispered, half breathed as the room grew hot and cold at the same time. “You’re dead. You killed yourself!”

“Oh?” he said. He was facing away from me. “Why did I do that?” he asked. 

“I-I don’t know,” I said, the room grew darker. 

“Yes you do,” he stated matter-a-factly. His head tilted slightly to the right. He still faced away from me.

“John?” I asked.

He didn’t turn around. He started running away instead. 

“John?” I called after him. 

“John! Wait!” I ran after him. I had to find him. I needed to see him.

“John please!” I called. He took a sharp left, and I ran after. 

He ran into a room and shut the door. I heard the click on a lock, and I cursed.

“Blast it John. I need to talk to you!” I called. I tried to kick in the door. 

I got a running start and hit the door with all my weight. It gave way.

I heard foot fall from a space not too far ahead of me. “John! I need to know why!” I called.

He stopped, but I still had to find him.

I had to find John. I had to tell him that I was sorry. I had to know why he killed himself, but first I had to find him.

I found him on a balcony that hung over a pit that had no obvious end. He stood on the railing.

“Do you know how this ends?” he asked, his voice like stone.

“No,” I said, tears rolling down my cheeks.

“Yes you do,” he said, walking on the edge. My heart sped up.

“Stop,” I tried to say, but the word stuck to my throat. I choked on them.

“No,” he laughed. “You get what you deserve, and you, Sherlock Holmes, deserve to die alone after what you did to me.”

“Please don’t leave me,” I begged. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know! Please, don’t go!” I have never begged anyone for anything in my life, but I did now. I didn’t want to die alone. I just needed to see him again. One last time.  
“Please.”

“Good bye,” he said cheerfully and spread his arms in welcome of the dark below him.

“No!” I called as he let himself drop. Without thinking, I jumped after him. 

“John!” I called as I reached out for him as the bottomless dark turned to blinding light. He finally turned to face me as we fell together into the light.

What point is past broken? Whatever it is, that is what state my heart was after I woke up and I realized I had lost him again. Or maybe that I never had him in the first place. I thought as my brain forced throught the fog. As soon as it did, something struck me as odd. Something was wrong. Mycroft was no where to be seen. I couldn't hear Mrs. Hudson. It was night time now. Maybe night time of the next day, by the stiffness of my body. There was a small noise from behind me. I looked around. Mycroft’s men were standing around, waiting for me to wake up. I was confused. Mycroft usually showed up in person. Why not now? 

“What is it this time?” I asked, trying to sit up. 

They didn’t say much. They just took me and forced me to go with them. I was forced into a limo, but that was normal when your brother is the British government.

I was taken to his office, which was in shambles. That was odd for him. Then again, laying around, being beaten to a pulp. 

“My God Mycroft!” I said, rushing to him. “What in bloody Hell happened to you?’ I demanded.

He looked at me. He gave a soft smile. “I have something to confess, but you cannot dwell on the past. I can not express how sorry I am,” he said. 

“Get to the point Mycroft,” I said, growing impatient.

He took out his phone and showed me a video. It was Moriarty. He was holding a paper from this morning. That didn’t surprise me. I had not bought into his faked death and my name being cleared without a motive.  
He smiled at the camera and said, “Hello Sherlock. I noticed you grew bored with our game, so I decided, let's play a new one. I have something you treasure. You love him, is what you confessed to Dr. Stamford, am I right?”

My heart was hammering/ in my chest. It was impossible. It had to be.a trick. It was impossible.But no, there he was, John, My John. He was tied, beaten, and bloody, but he was alive. God I was going to kill the bastard.  
I had to focus on saving him first. 

“Here are the rules. Find us at this address, maybe he will live. Maybe he’ll die, but I suppose that doesn’t matter. You’ve already mourned him,” he said, playing with a knife,

“Hurry and find us. I won’t hesitate to beat him beyond recognition, just like the body you planned that beautiful funeral for,” he said as the video cut out.

I looked at Mycroft. I was still coming down from a high and my head was spinning. I wasn’t sure if I had ever been that angry. I could have killed Mycroft and John. They put me through the worst sort of Hell. I have been physically and mentally tortured, but I have never felt the sort of misery as I had felt the past few months. 

“He is alive,” Mycroft said. I stayed silent. “Please, try to understand,” he begged. “I had to. You were being targeted. This was the only way. Sherlock please.” 

“I can’t deal with you right now,” I said, walking to the elevator. “The game is on,” I said with renewed energy and purpose.

I had to kill Moriarty, and beat the living hell out of John. 

I was going to save him. I was going to force him to tell me why. Maybe I would kiss him. After that I am going to kill him. How could he do that to me?

I went home. I grabbed John’s gun. I hailed a cab, then it was off to find John. It took only 30 minutes to find the mansion where Moriarty was keeping John. My John. My heart began to beat with will to live and a reason to do so. I looked around the yard, searching for Moriarty’s men. It was older in style, and the yard was overgrown. Vines wrapped around two large pillars. Only one light was on. It gave Moriarty the dramatic flare he had wanted. 

“Holmes!” he called from the top of the balcony. “You made it!” He looked at a nonexistent watch on his wrist. “With ten minutes to spare!” He was sitting on the edge of the balcony. 

“Where is John?” I demanded. The wind blew the tail of my coat behind me. My hair blew out of my eyes. There was a silhouette of a hunched figure behind Moriarty. My fists balled up. I was going to kill him.  
I walked into the oversize sitting room. The place was old, but it was sturdy. No ring of rot. It was clean. It has been kept up until this point. Someone had been living here. My bets were on the elderly couple who had been killed and laid together on the couch. He had painted smiles on their faces using their blood. They held signs that read, “Are you having fun?” and “Is this game too boring for you too?”  
I had to hury up and find John. I focused my brain off the bodies. It doesn’t matter that upon further observation that they did not live here. John mattered. He was all that mattered.

I walked up the stairs. I heard sobs throughout the place. They were heart wrenching. They were full of more sorrow that I thought was able. They were filled with grief. They were mine.  
It was the videos of my sessions with Dr. Stamford. My confession of guilt played over speakers. I tried to block them out. I knew I had to focus. Moriarty had a plan. I cou;dn’t let myself get distracted.  
I approached the only door that was shut in the whole house. Music played through the solid door. I took deep breaths. The door opened with a swift kick. Long live the Queen played loudly through large speakers. John sat in the middle of the room, battered and covered in blood. 

Moriarty was nowhere to be seen. I know it didn’t make sense, he had brought me here to kill me, after all. However, John was here, alive. He had obvious wounds and a horrible, absolutely horrendous mustache. 

“John! Look at me! John!” I shook him gently.

“Sherlock, Moriarty-”

“Where is he?” 

“Balcony,” was all he could manage to say. 

I looked to see that he was no longer there. He had disappeared and left only a note.

“I’m sorry to say that our long overdue play-date has been cut short. I called the police however. This should keep you entertained until we play again.  
-James Moriarty.

I soon heard sirens, and was taken into custody. John had lost conciseness, and was being taken to the closest hospital. The police recovered three bodies. An elderly couple and a young man. John was the one who killed the man, but I didn’t have the time to investigate the death of the couple. Police questioned me relentlessly until John woke up. He explained to them what had happened. He left out the fact he had killed someone, but they let me go, and I went straight to the hospital to find John.

He was awake when I got there. He had a broken arm, a few broken ribs, a horrible mustache, and a stab wound, but he was otherwise alright. I told everyone that he was alive. Very few were surprised. Bastards. Harriet had already known. Molly too. And Stamford. And Mycroft. I think only Mrs. Hudson, Lestraude, and myself were left in the dark. And how dark it had been, but he was here now. He could finally tell me why.

Molly and I went together. He had wanted to get him a get well gift. I did too, along with a piece of my mind. She got an ugly stuffed hedgehog and I got him flowers. “Is this appropriate?” I asked her. 

“Always!” I somehow doubted her judgement, but I agreed and got them anyway.

We went to his room together. The room was filled with get well balloons and small stiffed animals and jars of sweets. He smiled as we came in. "Hello," he greeted us.

Molly gave him the toy. He thanked her. “It’s wonderful Molly. Thank you,” he said. She gave him a warm smile. 

“We’re glad to have you back,” she said. She looked at me and made a small motion with her head that it was my turn. I was still mad at him, and I wanted him to know it. I could have killed him in that damned hospital bed. Still, I saw the regret and sorrow in his eyes when he dared them to meet mine. Despite my feelings of anger and betrayal and shame, I loved him. I could not leave him. I could not hear to be without him. I hated it, but this was how it was. I have tried not to love him. I tried to push away the feelings, but they aren’t going away. Now it was time to deal with them. No more regrets.

“These are for you, you lying, betraying bastard,” I said to him. This was a start.

He took them as I suddenly noticed a lack of people in the room. I felt the tears before they fell. He signed and tried to hide a wince. “Words can never express how sorry I am Sherlock,” he began. 

“Sorry?” I demanded. “Sorry? Do you see what you did to me?” I was sobbing again. I didn’t care who saw. I didn’t care about who cared. No one else existed, but me, John, and that God awful mustache. 

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I can explain.”

I sat in a chair nearby. “We’ve got all night.”

“This was all Mycroft’s plan up until I was caught by Moriarty.”

This had to be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the read! I hoped you liked it! I hope you enjoy part 3, which I hope to post very soon!
> 
> Y'all know I love to hear what y'all think! Feel free to leave a comment if you want! Thanks again!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!! I hope you liked it! stay tuned for pt.2!.....which will be posted when my brain cells return. Thank you again!!!


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